


I Will

by requestables (orphan_account)



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: I Will - The Beatles, M/M, Memories, Reminiscing, Songfic, THIS LITERALLY TOOK AGES, W E E K S
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-25
Packaged: 2020-08-14 15:14:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20194336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/requestables
Summary: Who knows how long I've loved you,You know I love you still.Paul's thoughts on his and John's relationship over the years.





	I Will

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i'd like to apologise if some of the scenes don't correlate well to the lyrics aaaa  
but this took ages, so please only leave positive comments! i accept constructive criticism! x

_ Who knows how long I’ve loved you _

  
  


When John Lennon and Paul McCartney met on the 6th of July, 1957, everything changed for both of them. That day was the day when they first lay eyes upon each other, the day they'd heard one another sing and play for the first time - the day of John's first infatuation with a person.  _ That day  _ was the first day of many in which they'd hear one another sing and laugh and share fleeting glances between them.

That day was very special to Paul. He didn't know if John treasured it as much as he did. 

It was Ivan who'd introduced them, a ciggie hanging between his parted lips, puffing out smoke every now and again. And it really couldn't have been anyone else - that would have changed it. Changed the whole day. 

Everything had been perfect. 

And John's infatuation with him that been there, though it hadn't quite blossomed into  _ love  _ yet, it was there, and he knew that the band wouldn't go anywhere without young Paul McCartney keeping them afloat. 

_ John's  _ band became  _ John and Paul's  _ band. 

Paul had fallen in love with him a little while later, and the realisation made him want to curl up and cry because, fuck,  _ he wasn't queer,  _ but it was only John. 

He wasn't queer  _ for  _ John, he told himself at first, but that phrase eventually morphed into  _ I'm not queer.  _ The stage of denial had passed and though he knew that he wasn't queer,  _ it was John _ , and John was what made him want to drop to his knees and do whatever he was asked to do by the older. 

When John fell in love with Paul, it was different. He assumed it was more of a love that best mates share, because sure, he loved Stu and his other friends, but it had seemed different to that. It was  _ so  _ different. When he'd found out what it was, he'd ignored Paul for weeks and stayed inside - he'd rather listen to his aunt Mimi telling him what to do and to  _ get out of bed, for Christ's sake!  _ than face his feelings. 

His feelings, when conveyed, just confused everyone who he told about them, and himself - it made more sense in his head, a jumbled mess of words and emotions, than speaking clearly out loud; maybe that’s why song lyrics and poetry helped. He hadn’t thought yet that his poetry was just as good as song lyrics until Paul pointed it out one day while they were practicing.

He'd never been good with feelings. 

  
  


_ You know I love you still _

  
  


It was in Hamburg when they'd acted upon that love. 

In an alleyway, sometime after midnight and after a bunch of adrenaline pumping shows, it was John who had pushed Paul up against the wall and kissed him harshly, pulling the younger's legs up around his waist to rut up against him -  _ this  _ was love, adrenaline coursing through their bodies as they got off, John had thought. 

He was so wrong. 

That night was the start of many other nights of the same nature, like the day they met had been the first of many, some fueled by that familiar adrenaline and others fueled by anger - it was always the same. 

Paul knew that his love for John would never die, no matter how hard he wanted it to, he knew it would stay with him forever, a reminder of the times they'd shared when everything was easier. Now it was just… difficult. 

“I love you, Paul,” John had said one night, after a drunken fight with some man at the bar, his face was bruised and there were tear marks apparent on his face. That was it - the first time he’d said it, and he’d been drunk,  _ oozing  _ confidence.

Paul wasn’t sure if he meant it or not, but the phrase he said in reply was sure as hell true, “I love you too, John. C’mon, let’s get you cleaned up, yeah?”

The second time John had uttered those words was in another Hamburg alleyway, while he was buried deep inside the younger,  _ for the first time,  _ he had said them muffled against Paul’s neck. Straight after, he bit down on Paul’s soft flesh, drawing a long moan from him, and the words were forgotten in a frenzy of pleasure.

Paul didn’t forget them.

And now, loving John was the most painful thing he’s ever had to face - watching him hold hands with Yoko, watching him giggle over letters the stupid fuckin’ bird had sent him, watching him happy with someone else - it was,  _ fuck,  _ it was terrible. “I love you.” He told him, not the first and definitely not the last, and John merely presented him with a tight lipped smile, before going off to  _ Yoko  _ again.

“I love you more than anyone.” John had told him, once; sometime during the old days, around ‘66. Those words were for Yoko now.

And sure, Paul loved Linda - he  _ really  _ loved her, she was perfect in every way, but she wasn’t  _ John Lennon. _

  
  


_ Will I wait a lonely lifetime _

  
  


Everything revolved around John. Paul couldn’t live without him.

He’d lost his mother to cancer, when he was fourteen, and met John when he was fifteen, and somehow that void that he’d felt since her death was filled. Not completely, no, it’d never leave completely, he’d always miss her, no matter how old and grey he lived, but it was more bearable. If John died, he’d never be able to forgive himself for the lost words he was never able to say to him, and he’d never be able to forgive himself for actions that just confused John more. He hoped he didn't die. 

_ Who was Paul McCartney without John Lennon? _

Paul had forgotten. 

He had fully, completely and certainly forgotten his life before John.

John was a very unpredictable person. He said he loved Paul, and then went off with Cynthia to shag - it was a cycle that would probably never end, and if it wasn't him or Cynthia, it was some other bird that looked hot. 

Paul's days without John were lonesome - sure, he had George and a couple other people he'd be willing to hang out with, but while with John, Paul was  _ motivated.  _ Merely being on John's vicinity gave Paul inspiration to write lyrics and play music. 

It was him who'd taught John the normal guitar chords after his mother had taught him silly banjo chords - he couldn't believe his luck when the older agreed to let him teach him, it was an honour, and Paul had smiled the entire time. John's amuteur banjo chords soon turned into skilled guitar playing, to a point where he could play  _ Buddy Holly's That'll Be The Day  _ almost perfectly - Paul had been proud.  _ He'd _ done that. 

There were periods of time in which John wouldn't talk to him, and they would usually last a couple of weeks - they'd see one another at band practice but never actually  _ speak,  _ they'd only glance at each other from across the room, faint blushes spreading across their cheeks. Of course, it was  _ just Paul _ who John would ignore, never Stu or George or Cyn - always Paul.

He didn’t like it.

He kind of new why. 

  
  


_ If you want me to I will  _

  
  


If Paul had to wait for years for John, he would - any amount of time away from John would be worth it to be with him eventually. 

"I love you," Paul had said to John one morning, before recording takes of The White Album, by far the most irritating album they'd ever had to record, but it wasn't said back - maybe John's love for him was gone, but Paul was still stuck with the curse of loving John Lennon. 

Sometimes he wished he never did. Sometimes he wished they never met. But that would mean no Beatles, and no John, and no  _ memories.  _

No  _ Paris.  _

Paris was theirs, they'd always have that, even if they ended up bloody hating each other, sending angry letters back and forth between them, insults slinging but not really directed at one another, more at the mistakes they'd made that somehow made their friendship - their  _ relationship  _ \- crash and burn. They'd always have Paris. 

One of John's family members had given him a load of money and he'd just decided,  _ fuck it! Paul and I are going to Paris!  _ And, well, they did go, and created many everlasting memories of the life they used to have together - one of his favourite memories of Paris was when Paul had woken up one morning to John stroking his cheek gently. He was gazing lovingly into his eyes, a soft smile adorning his red face - Elvis was playing in the background from an old record player, the record very scratchy but bearable to listen to, and John had kissed him softly. They'd kissed to the sound of Elvis, a soft kiss that escalated to John slowly and surely taking him, all  _ lovingly  _ and  _ hushed.  _

And yes, they'd fucked before that, but this was  _ making love.  _

It was different. 

It was fueled by  _ love.  _ Not anger, or lust, or adrenaline - love. 

He'd kill if John wanted him to, he'd  _ die  _ if John wanted him to, he'd do anything John wanted, and that's what Paul hated the most - that control; it made him feel like shit, but it put a smile on John's face, and that's all he needed to get through the day. He could be pissed at John, and then the older would smile, and he'd smile so familiarly that Paul couldn't stay mad at him. 

Deep down, John still loved him, Paul could tell. Knowing John, he also could tell that he'd never face that fact again, especially after the amount of arguments they shared, yelling at one another in the studios until Ringo had  _ walked out on them  _ \- he wanted all this to stop. He wanted to go back. 

  
  


_ For if I ever saw you _

  
  


John's gaze stopped on Paul, his eyes no longer wandering but fixated on just him, and he felt his cheeks heat up, a red colour obviously forming all over his face. John chuckled, and Paul only blushed more. 

  
  


_ I didn't catch your name _

  
  


After a while, Paul felt like he didn't know John - he'd changed so much since they'd been lovers, changed so much since  _ Yoko,  _ really, and Paul could feel him slipping. He was slipping away and all the younger could do was watch as he was dragged away by that  _ fucking demon.  _ Yoko wasn't even human in his mind anymore, she was some evil entity dead-set on causing him pain by stealing John away from him - she'd caused John pain, too, and continued to do so even after Paul accused her. 

John had started dragging George into the hatred towards Paul. Having John hate him hurt enough, but  _ George?  _ He felt like his world was falling apart with every glance they shot his way, sat in the corner of the room, conspiring away. 

John wasn't John anymore. 

He was something else. 

This John was not who Paul had met in 1957, the teddy boy that was secretly sweet to those he loved, like Paul, not the John who took him to Paris and made love to him countless times.  _ This  _ John absolutely  _ hated  _ him. 

John bought Yoko the studio every single day, or, well, on the days he decided to show up, so Paul decided to bring Linda to the studio. 

"We're not even  _ working together  _ anymore, right, Lennon? So why the fuck can't Linda be here if we're not even in the same fucking studio as you?" Paul seethed upon hearing that John disapproved of him bringing Linda, his wife who he loved  _ dearly,  _ when John bought Yoko, even though literally nobody wanted her there. Not even Ringo! 

"I don't want her in the studios! Have you forgotten that this is  _ my  _ band?" John shouted back at him, fists clenched and shaking. He just wanted to either punch Paul in the face over and over again or push him against the wall and kiss him fiercely, take him in front of everyone -  _ anger,  _ he told himself. 

_ Christ, John.  _

"A band that you don't fucking want!" Came Paul's retort, and with that, he was pushed against the wall.

John didn't kiss him, like he wanted to, or punch him, like he wanted to. He merely leaned in and opened his mouth, speaking in a low tone, "I'd fucking  _ wreck  _ you right now if everyone wasn't here watching. You know that, right? I'd fucking  _ wreck you." _

Paul remembered how he'd frowned and tried to push John away, but the older was stronger than him, and he wanted it - he wished  _ his  _ wife, and  _ John's  _ wife and their  _ friends  _ would just leave so that he could feel John's hands on his hips, whether it be for the last time or not. Of course, they wouldn't all just leave - they had a fucking album to record. 

John had taken Paul's prolonged silence as an opportunity to speak again, "I'd fuck you, James," The way John said his name made Paul shudder heavily, "I'd open you up nice and slow and then fuck that tight hole of yours, and you're going to remember  _ who you belong to. _ "

Paul regretted even being in the studio that day. He regretted bringing Linda. He regretted starting an argument with John. He regretted everything. 

Paul had stared at John with a flustered expression, one easily hidden by John's shoulder, which was near his face so that the older could easily whisper to him, "You think  _ she  _ loves you? She doesn't, Paul. You're a  _ slut. _ "

Paul's anger had taken over as soon as John whispered the last word, and he pushed John back, repeatedly hitting his chest in an attempt to hurt him, but he felt so  _ weak  _ and  _ tired  _ and he just wanted to curl up in bed and  _ forget.  _ He felt like that a lot these days. 

He'd carried on hitting John's chest until Yoko tried to forcefully pull him away, but instead of hitting John more, he clung to his shirt with both hands and sobbed against him. He'd sobbed and cried in front of John before, but he'd been truly vulnerable this time - it was in front of  _ everyone.  _ He was breaking down in front of everyone and the only thing that kept him safe was John's arms, which steadily wrapped around him. 

There had been muffled talking around him, but he didn't pay attention through his crying and sorrow. His chest rose and fell unrhythmically and unevenly, his knees buckled, his eyes closed - all he could feel was John. Shame, anger, remorse - Paul was feeling all of these. 

He should have known John didn't really want him. He should have fucking known. 

The muffled speaking had been John's, and what he'd said was far worse than anything he'd ever done to Paul. 

_ "He's unstable. He needs to be at home. Not here." _

Who the hell was John Lennon? 

Paul certainly didn't know. 

  
  


_ But it never really mattered  _

  
  


"Hey, John?" 

"Yeah, darling?" 

"What if we get caught?" 

"Doesn't matter. I love you."

  
  


_ I will always feel the same _

  
  


Though Paul had lost John,  _ the real John,  _ he still loved him. He still missed him, still wanted him, even if John didn't want him. 

His feelings for John would never change. 

He hated that. 

He looked at John and Yoko and felt his heart split every single time, and then he went home to Linda, and it was fixed - an endless cycle that had Paul  _ so confused _ , so  _ fucking _ confused. 

He wanted his feelings for John to fuck off. 

But they wouldn't. 

He'd never had such a strong connection with somebody before John and he probably never would - sometimes he looked at Linda and thought,  _ I love you more _ , but that was a lie and he knew it. 

Paul's memories were messy and a blurr, from their first 'I love you's to the  _ last _ \- but somehow the last' I love you' John ever uttered to him was more clear than their first (possibly because the last caused the most heartbreak). 

It was 1966 and Paul was at the beach with John. They'd gone there to sit and get some writing done, hopefully in silence as it wasn't too windy or crowded that day - they'd managed to write a little, but something was on John's mind and the younger could tell. 

After knowing John for all those years, after spending almost all his time with him, he could just  _ tell.  _ It wasn't something as obvious as him zoning out or forgetting what chords he was supposed to use - it wasn't so simple. Usually, it would be eye contact, him not being able to make it with anyone, no matter how close they were through fear that his eyes could expose his every thought, but it wasn't that. In fact, John made more eye contact with Paul than he ever had before in one day, holding eye contact with him for minutes at a time. 

Maybe  _ that  _ was it. 

Maybe he'd wanted Paul to notice. 

  
  


_ Love you forever and forever _

  
  


"What's wrong, Johnny?" Paul had asked him, voice soft and quiet, almost too quiet for John to hear - he shook his head in reply, choosing not to say anything just yet. 

The younger shuffled closer to him on the sand, an arm wrapping around John's shoulder as he leant in closer, much, much closer, so that their noses were almost bumping and their lips were almost touching. He felt John's breath against his lips and he almost giggled. 

"I, just- I can't  _ think,  _ Paulie, y'know? I just can't- my mind is so cloudy." He whispered, before leaning in impossibly closer to touch his lips against Paul's own, a soft kiss that for once, didn't hold the promise of sex or anything of the sort. It held the promise of something else, something much, much more. 

John could never hold his promises. 

Paul should have remembered that, but John's lips against his were distracting - so, very distracting. 

  
  


_ Love you with all my heart _

  
  


"John- you- you're-" Paul sucked in a sharp breath, holding John's hand in his, "My heart is yours," And he meant it, he really did, especially while at the beach with the man he loved, "I love you."

John had sighed happily and squeezed Paul's hand, "I- I love you too, Macca."

And they'd kissed again and again, each one more full of adoration than the last, softer and more delicate each time. 

  
  


_ Love you whenever we're together  _

  
  


"Love, love me do, you know I love you," They'd sung together, sharing one mic, during the recording of this song, and Paul remembered it vividly, the way they’d looked at one another with eyes full of fond adoration and the way they’d also shared wanting glances. It wasn’t the same as recording any other song together, wasn’t the same as even practicing together, because, while gazing into each other's eyes, the lyrics meant something.

And, yeah,  _ In Spite Of All The Danger _ had meant something, and they both held it very dearly in their hearts, but this one,  _ Love Me Do  _ somehow felt different. It reminded them both of all their past love confessions and brought to their minds all the love confessions to come in the future, and hell, both knew there would be more.

As their thighs brushed together and wide smiles spread across their faces, Paul knew that he was completely and utterly  _ fucked.  _

  
  


_ Love you when we’re apart _

  
  


Being away from John was painful, to say the least, because though he could hear John over the phone (and, oh, he’d always be on the phone for hours) , he couldn’t see his face, his beautiful smile, the way his eyes fluttered closed when he laughed. He couldn’t  _ see  _ any of that, and that’s what made him happy - to see John in his natural state, no walls build around him and no masks, just him and Paul, together.

Talking over the phone was  _ not  _ enough, and it never would be, but Paul could still clutch onto the mental images he’d kept of John in his mind, his every move predictable through the phone - it wasn’t his eyes that gave everything away, it was his voice.

Emotions flowed through his words and voice rather than his actions.

“Paul? Are you- are you still there?” John’s voice had always been in his mind because of the amount they’d talked over the phone, along with those images, and Paul had always wished to keep them, there, in his head so at any moment he could just…  _ think  _ about John.

He now wished that they would go away, just like his feelings and love for the older man. Thinking about him now made Paul feel physically sick, because every single memory of them together in the past just bought him pain.

And then he’d think about Yoko.

Yoko Ono. The name was just…  _ sickening,  _ and maybe it wasn’t John that sickened him, he realised, it was that  _ his  _ John was now  _ Yoko’s  _ John. She didn’t deserve him.

Did Paul  _ ever  _ deserve John? He found himself thinking that no, perhaps he didn't. 

  
  


_ And when at last I find you _

  
  


Paul remembered when John had asked him to meet him at Strawberry Fields at midnight. Midnight  _ exactly,  _ he recalled John saying. 

He’d reluctantly - extremely reluctantly - agreed. 

It was stupid, really, sneaking out of his house at half eleven at night on a Tuesday, climbing down the pipe on the wall that his bedroom was on and escaping into the night to see  _ John Lennon,  _ the bad boy. The bad boy that he really, really loved seeing.

Anyone who saw them would think,  _ goody two shoes McCartney with that Lennon kid; he’s a bad influence,  _ but Paul didn’t exactly  _ care,  _ in fact it made him laugh hearing that from people, because ‘ _ goody two shoes McCartney _ ’? - that didn’t sound right. What would they think if they saw him in John’s lap, tongues swirling together and broken moans escaping their parted lips?

The crisp air made him shiver, having forgotten to put a coat on prior, and that cold feeling would resonate on his skin for years, how he’d been so excited yet so  _ cold  _ while on the way to see John, it nipping at his skin like millions of tiny bugs.

He’d gotten to Strawberry Fields around 11:55 and stood at the entrance for a few minutes, hoping that John was already there, that he didn’t have to wait or, even worse, hoping that John would even  _ show up - _ John’s reputation told Paul that it was a possibility, but he willed himself to believe that John was already there, waiting for him. He walked in and made his way to where they would usually meet during the day.

Sure enough, there was John, laying on top of a blanket that had been sprawled out across the grass. Paul cleared his throat as he approached John, seeing the older look up and see him, a smile spreading across his face in the dark - he’d bought some lanterns with him to place aesthetically around the blanket and Paul eyed them with a curious expression. “They’re Mimi’s.” John said.

Paul nodded and smiled back at him, sitting down next to John, who still hadn’t sat up yet.

He looked beautiful in the minimal light.

The older pulled Paul to lay down with him, the two settling into a comfortable position; Paul’s head on John’s chest and one of his legs hooked around John’s hips, sharing much needed warmth on the cold night. John’s free hand was on Paul’s thigh, and he was slowly rubbing it up and down, hoping to warm the younger up a little more, as he was obviously shivering. “Why didn’t you bring a coat?” 

Paul hummed and then sighed, “I don’t- I don’t know.”

“Silly boy.” John had put on his best Mimi impression and instantly laughed at how stupid it sounded, Paul joining in on the laughter, the two of them staring up at the stars, cuddling in the middle of Strawberry Fields at midnight. It had been perfect.

“When’s Hamburg, again?” Paul asked, shifting his head so he could look into the older’s sparkling eyes, the lantern light reflecting in them very nicely, “Next week?”

And John nodded, leaning down to kiss Paul, who wasn’t trembling quiet as much anymore. 

Paul giggled against John’s lips and moved in closer to him, the older’s warmth all he really needed. John. He needed John.

  
  


_ Your song will fill the air _

  
  


“In spite of all the danger,” Said John, “In spite of all that may be.”

“That all you got?”

“So far, yeah, anything to add, Macca?”

Paul hummed in response, thinking for a minute.  _ I’ll do… _

_ I’ll do anything for you… _

“I’ll do anything for you, anything you want me to, if you’ll be true to me.”

  
  


_ Sing it loud so I can hear you _

  
  


Recording their song was amazing. It hadn’t been expensive, quite cheap, actually, and him and John had sung every word right, gotten every chord correct - it sounded bloody beautiful once they’d done and listened to it again. 

The song had taken ages to write; it had started with John and Paul brainstorming ideas and then singing what they already had, adding to it as they went - that method had worked extremely well at first, but got increasingly harder as it went along.

Paul thought that maybe, they’d be able to write together so easily for as long as they lived, and that perhaps each song-writing session would be so light hearted, filled with unfinished lyrics and fleeting giggles, but it wasn’t. Not anymore. Now, they couldn’t even be in the same room without arguing or glaring, and it had gotten to the point that Paul had frequent panic attacks and had to leave the room whenever John so much as threw him a dirty look.

It used to be so fucking easy to write with him; to  _ be  _ with him.

He  _ still  _ couldn’t pinpoint what changed.

In Spite Of All The Danger would always be  _ their  _ song, even if they recorded it with the band, it was their song, a reminder of good times before everything began downward spiraling, their friendship and  _ relationship  _ crashing and burning. He wished John still loved him like he did then; he wouldn’t have to cry so much.

Paul had a feeling, even then, that they’d make it big, and he had John to thank for even being there for him, otherwise, who knows what would have happened, right?

He never thought that they eventually wouldn’t be able to stand one another, that arguments would be a constant thing in the studios, John straight up telling him that his songs were  _ shit _ , no, that didn’t even sound like anything John would have said to him before.

But now it was everything he said,  _ "Your lyrics are just silly love songs, Paul! They're all shitty!"  _

It made him feel better getting caught up in his memories of when they were happy, though it seemed so far away, so long ago - he'd been in a band with John since he was fifteen. Who was he without John? 

  
  


_ Make it easy to be near you _

  
  


"What about this, Johnny?" Paul turned his notebook to face John, his messy handwriting sprawled across the two pages displayed - John had to squint to read some of it, not being able to decipher the mess of letters that were on the pages. 

Instead of humming positively or giving feedback, John laughed heartily, throwing his head back. His loud, ringing laugh echoed around the room and he clutched his stomach, laughing for a good minute. The younger stared at him confused the whole time, eyebrow raised. 

Maybe John was laughing because of how bad it was? Paul thought. Hopefully that wasn't it, his thoughts carried on - or, what if he was laughing because his lyrics were too cliche? The harder John laughed, the more Paul's brain became a vertigo of panic, the more his brain began to turn against him. 

"Why are you laughing?" The younger asked, feeling self conscious suddenly.

John covered his mouth for a second to stifle his laughter but ultimately gave up, “You sounded so done- so done with it and I can’t even read most of it!”

Relief flooded Paul’s panicked mind, washing away all his doubts and he let a smile fall upon his face, softly gracing his now calm features. He joined in on the laughter, the two of them looking down at his incoherent lyrics; Paul felt so in control for once, that he could laugh freely, that he could say anything without being judged. That he could show his deepest, darkest thoughts through lyrics and John wouldn’t insult him or feel pity; he’d understand.

Because John’s lyrics also made him vulnerable. They could feel like that around one another and it’d be easier, so much easier, to just share everything with one another - the uncomfortable feeling they felt while sharing with others wasn’t there; it was just  _ John and Paul,  _ best mates. Lovers.

They were the best of mates  _ and  _ lovers, though they had to hide the latter from the world. Nobody could know, that would destroy their band and everything they stood for, so they ultimately decided it would be best to stay as private about it as they could.

None of the fans would ever suspect anything. Their bandmates? Maybe they’d find out, Paul recalled himself worrying, but would they be disgusted? Turn them in to the police?

They could never -  _ especially  _ not Ringo; the oldest of the group would never put them in any danger. Neither would George. Or, obviously, Eppy. 

They’d be fine, he’d reassured himself, everything would be fine.

  
  


_ For the things you do endear you to me _

  
  


Little habits of John’s had always fascinated him. He’d bite his nails when he was stressed, though common, John doing it seemed much more surreal - like the older had too much of a reputation to be  _ stressed.  _ Their lives were full of stress. Of course John would be immensely stressed.

Sometimes Paul would notice him running his hands through his hair or even pulling on the ends of the longest locks, his beautiful auburn hair a mess underneath his trembling fingers. He sometimes wished that he could do the same, run his hands through John’s hair, but softer, more delicate - as a comfort instead of stress-induced urgency.

Other things John did were more violent. He’d get into fights and throw careless punches, no matter the time of day or night - if he was angry, stressed or sad, starting fights was typically his go-to. If he couldn’t do that, walls were the next best thing. Paul would always find himself kissing John’s bruised knuckles or wrapping them up in bandages if they got too bad. Whoever John decided was worthy to fight (practically anyone, really, when he was in the mood) would usually get in a few punches themselves, albeit not many, and they would hit  _ hard _ .

Paul had an idea that John knew his behaviour wasn’t healthy in any way and that he was merely hurting himself, others and Paul - but, did he care? Of course not, it was John Lennon.

John was so… endearing. He had such an interesting mind and thought process. One moment, he’d be talking about some bird he had gotten a quick blowjob or shag out of, and the other moment he was staring at Paul, looking lovesick and absolutely smitten. 

  
  


_ Oh, you know I will _

  
  


James Paul McCartney loved John Winston Lennon, if that wasn’t already obvious enough - every single memory would always stay with Paul, from their first kiss to their last, their first ‘I love you’ to the first ‘I hate you’ and even the day they met; every memory was special in its own way. Each memory bought either a smile or a grimace to his face, sometimes both - his love had grown stronger through the hate that had recently dawned itself upon them.

His love for John consumed him until it was his entire being and purpose.

He didn’t want to love John.

  
  


_ I will _

  
  


And so, there was the song. I Will. Written down in the same sprawled out, messy, only-he-could-understand handwriting. Would John let him record this? Maybe he’d read it - or, well, try to - and  _ understand.  _ Perhaps he’d see that all of this was for him and for him only, see what Paul was trying to convey. 

Or maybe he wouldn’t. Maybe the lyrics would have no connection to any memory in John’s mind and Paul would, once again, be lost within his own mind, a constant downward spiral.

Either way, this song was the song that meant everything to Paul. This song, written by Paul, wasn’t just for John.

It  _ was  _ John.


End file.
